The Collector

Caged beauty

John Fowles’ haunting novel takes possession to a whole new level

I turn today, to ‘The Collector’, a novel for which my friends have no doubt become bored stiff at my endless admiration. I will certainly strive to, but admit that at times I may fail to, remain whole-heartedly unbiased in my judgement. I love this book.

‘The Collector’ tackles an increasingly popular genre of literature- that which explores the chilling relationship between the kidnapped and the kidnapper. The idea of kidnapping itself seems to have grasped the excitement of the modern world, what with numerous books and films alike receiving competent success within this genre. Emma Donoghue’s ‘Room’, for example, received nominations for several awards, before subsequent success as a film adaptation in 2015. Undeniably, although rather dishonourably, the idea of being locked away seems to give the reader a welcome rush of adrenaline and new-found appreciation for their own freedom.

However,  in the case of the 'Collector', it seems that Fowles’ protagonist is far from your average kidnapper. Whilst Frederick Clegg meets the typical description of male, poorly educated loner, his motive for kidnapping is arguably unique. He's a butterfly collector- obsessed with capturing  beautiful, winged creatures and displaying them, until one day this accumulation of beauty simply isn't enough. He decides that he wants more. He decides to collect a woman.

After a lucky win on the football pools leaves Frederick with a strange new sense of wealth, and he purchases a secluded mansion complete with hidden cellar, all preparations are complete for the abduction . His chosen human butterfly is beautiful, politically-minded art student: Miranda Grey. With a chloroform-soaked handkerchief acting as a metaphorical butterfly net, Miranda is soon successfully captured and carried to the cellar designed especially to be her new mini-universe. Frederick promises never to harm Miranda- she may have whatever she wants, and spend her time however she pleases. The one tiny catch? She must stay there always, as his perfect possession. 

What separates this novel from the average abduction drama, in my opinion, is the undoubtedly substantial character of Miranda Grey. The reader is treated to approximately half the narrative from Frederick, and the other half from Miranda, through the diary she keeps in captivity. She takes the idea of submissive victim and challenges it with layers of determination, energy and raw human emotion. Some days, her narrative is filled with fascinating rants expressing her political views and utter contempt for the right-wing, capitalist hostility of her privileged background. Other days, she is little more than a sobbing child, longing for her freedom.

We learn of Miranda's life as a student, and of her exciting, older male friend who has captured her somewhere between love and lust. We watch with baited breath as she attempts to psycho-analyse her captor, and break him down slowly through cleverly thought-out escape techniques. Throughout all of this, I found her most admirable quality to be her sheer will to survive. As Miranda philosophised over the pure joy of living, and her desperate pleas to simply 'use her life', I found the sudden urge to simply open a window and marvel at my own freedom. This book reminds you that you are alive.

Of course, a good portion of the novel is also dedicated to the narrative of the kidnapper. What motivates Frederick to kidnap Miranda is the idealised persona he has conjured up for her, as this beautiful, untouchable specimen (yes, rather like a butterfly.) Yet, as he begins to understand her more, what he finds is a definitive clash of social ideals. As a working class man in the sixties, Frederick has learnt to despise the pretentious middle class, or as he terms them- "la-di-da types." Whilst Miranda herself actively attempts to rebel against her social status, through birth she is automatically associated with everything Frederick hates, which causes tension. It seems that his so-called perfect human butterfly is not as perfect as he had anticipated. In other words, she is just a human, and humanity itself defies perfection.

Still, argue as they might, Frederick remains determined to keep Miranda confined within his cellar, despite her constant pleading and escape attempts. The situation is largely more about possession than romance, which gives the novel an interesting underlying theme. On several occasions, Frederick boasts at the satisfaction of merely knowing that Miranda is his, and completely off-limits to the rest of the world. This seems to reflect the author's own desire for power, evident from his demand that his lover cut all ties with her former husband and child in order to remain solely under his control. Perhaps there is something of Fowles within his troubled protagonist, and their shared desire to trap beautiful women within their clutches.

Remarkably, 'The Collector' is thought to have provided inspiration for many copy-cat abductions, including the 8-year confinement of Natasha Kampusch in a secluded cellar not unlike the one described in Fowles' novel. However legitimate these claims are, the suggestion remains that the concept of possessing the perfect woman (or indeed man) is a familiar fantasy of many. If I had to highlight a fault in this novel, I would argue that even more could be included to outline exactly what it is that draws people towards perfection, in whatever form it may take. Perhaps the answer is simple, as Miranda writes: 'we all want something we can't have. Being a decent human being is accepting that.'

Indeed, as I conclude what has become my longest review so far, I can only praise the captivating nature of this novel. It is one that can be read in as little as a few days, yet mused upon for months to come. In the world of John Fowles, it seems that something of everyone can be found within this book. The question is- are you a butterfly collector- or the butterfly?